Wildest Fantasies
by Camy99
Summary: Falling for your best friend and teenage hormones do not mix. Oneshot.


**Note: I just… **_**felt**_** like it should be rated T. Nobody actually says and/or does anything that bad, but the idea of the whole fic is in the T range so T it will be rated dang it! Lol—enjoy =] (Omgsh I haven't gotten a fic idea in so long I'm really excited!)**

—**Lilly's POV—**

Is it just me or is this stupid cement block I sat on getting colder and harder by the second? And definitely stupider.

I hate waiting. It feels like an additional punishment for needing the extra after-school hour in pre-calculus tutoring—which is enough of a punishment in itself. Unfortunately, I remain a non-driving junior and my mom remains unable to keep track of time. I glance at my watch, 3:45; 15 minutes wasted away on this lovely piece of agony—I mean, cement. I groan with impatience, slide my hands back as to lean on them, letting my dirty blonde mane go untamed. What do I care; no one of importance is within radius, or else why aren't they driving me home?! I close my eyes and sigh yet again.

Somewhere within the cries of the junior high girls attempting to play softball (those little girls have some _squeaky_ voices!), I hear the roar of a vehicle. A white 1993 Chevrolet pick-up with the paint scraped off on both the bottom left of the hood and the back—to be precise. Cars and I aren't two subjects that get along, yet I could pinpoint this pick-up within a sea of roaring vehicles while in a coma. Some would call it a special skill; some would call it a slight obsession. I know it just may have something to do with the owner of this certain vehicle.

I sit up and feign daydreaming as I follow his glance my direction behind his pilot sunglasses. Some soul extremely uncaring towards my teenage hormones decided that he should hide his mint chocolate jewels behind those pair of sunglasses every single day for the last month or so. He just sits there, unaware of how his silky dark strands land just in frame with the contrasting gold structure—and they expect me to pay attention to the _teacher_? I always furrow my eyebrows when he catches my gaze, telling him he might as well take them off for he failed the cool test. That or he may one day find the need to turn me in for impulsive rape of some sorts. The last part kept in my not-to-be-said-out-loud thought box, of course.

I don't know if it's just to rub in getting his license before me, but he holds a record for driving unnecessarily slow near me. Always with one arm carelessly hanging on his window and the other skillfully placed on his steering wheel. And did he ever know how to steer that thing. The car; _I am talking about the car_. Or at least I emphasize that in my mind to ensure it doesn't wander. His tanned and toned arm, his eyes' attention to placement, his hand's tight grip, his casual yet on-beat tapping against the window sill—sometimes I believe he does it on purpose; he knows exactly what it does to me and he loves it.

I attempt to look away, enough is enough, a line needs to be drawn—only to get sucked right back in when he comes to a slow screech in the parking spot directly to my left. Has it become too obvious if I need to turn my head to stare at him? Probably, so I skillfully fling my hair to one side and tilt my head in feigned boredom. Perfect view with my apprehension still kept secret—years of practice baby.

Where do guys get that skill to look hotter than the sun by simply leaning on the outside of their car, and where, oh where, do I get the drug that will slow down my heartbeat? I send my hand flying and make contact with my water bottle and down it in hopes of a natural cure (I surprisingly don't get it all over myself considering this awkward not-made-for-drinking leaned position).

As I glance back up, his hand and button-up shirt get into an ugly argument resulting into a ripping revelation of his robust body. _Oh my loving goodness_. It was early spring cool weather outside, but the boy was hot, so let him be hot! Let him rip his shirt off! And if I want to gallop right over to devour his neck, for the love of everything right _and_ wrong let me! And if we want to madly make out as the poor, innocent softball girls gasp away, then madly make out we shall.

All is beautiful in my world, until he decides to speak up.

"Hey you." It takes two simple words to snap me out of my consistent daydreams. I don't gallop, or dash, or saunter over to embrace him. No, I continue to sit on my cold cement block and glare at the buttons on his shirt which remain unwilling to move.

I gather the courage to at least bite my lip as I smile back, "Hey you too." My mom picks the perfect timing to maneuver herself in between our conversation. He says he guesses he'll see me later. I smile again and cutely wave. And before I embark home in whatever kind of car it is my mom has, I look back at the guy leaning on his car watching his sister play softball. I look back at the secretly developed love of my life. I look back… at my lifelong best friend in the whole wide world who claims to know me inside out. Yeah, right. Only my lifelong best friend he will remain.

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—**Oliver's POV—**

As if six hours of school wasn't enough, I had to go back an hour and a half later to pick my little softball-playing sister up. What is the point of a game like softball anyways? They're junior high girls, what could they possibly practice for an hour and a half?!

I groan as I make my way onto the school grounds for the second time today, only to find the object of reason why I decided to come fifteen minutes early. No, I don't love my sister and softball so much I'd watch them for fifteen extra minutes. But there is someone else who captivates me enough to watch for the rest of eternity if so needed.

I glance over to her and as she glances back, I thank the good Lord that I'm wearing my sunglasses so she can't see my glance develop to an emphasized gaze. She hates those glasses, but there exists so much more to them than she knows. Oh, if only she knew.

Our glance exchange intensifies, her rainstorm blue eyes make me shiver—in the best way one can imagine. I barely realize that I've had my breath held this whole time. Mix the cool breeze and her disheveled dirty blonde hair with a hint of sunlight—and you've got my perfect heart-stopping smoothie. I expect my knuckles to burst any moment from holding the steering wheel too tightly and anxiously tapping against the window sill. I gulp and snap back into my driving to find out I was barely moving. She does that to me. I'd be cruising along and then she appears and my foot decides it can't push anything. I attempt to control myself and pull into the parking lot beside her.

Do girls _know_ even the most modest of skirts will ride up when they cross their legs? And how the heck does she make the smallest head-tilting the most attractive thing since magnets? The area inside my truck starts to feel smaller, that sense of claustrophobia I get when I'm too close to anything but her. I step outside, and my body decides my shirt I've been wearing just fine all day is choking me. I slyly unbutton the first few and breathe it off.

I glance back at her hoping my foolish inability to handle my hormones wasn't so apparent. But how does one do that when she decides to take a drink from her wattle bottle—and then completely miss her mouth soaking her entire self in the process? I stare at her, opened-eyed, wondering if she knows she's wearing a white shirt. I watch her face covered by wet blonde strands go from a feigned horrified look to a flirty smirk—oh she knows. And I know that's my cue. My temperature-risen body suddenly cools down as our wet and dry bodies meet. Actually, who knows whose body is whose anymore? From the girlish shrieking I hear I know I will have to come up with the perfect bribe to get my little sister to keep her mouth shut to my parents.

My wildest fantasies only get wilder until the sound of a bottle dropped back awakens me.

Key word in wildest fantasies—it's a fantasy. I realize I've been gawking at her without saying a word and probably scaring the living crap out of her. "Hey… you." That was the best "wild fantasy boy" could come up with.

She bites her lip in the slight fright she probably gained from my unlawful staring and dreaming, and responds. This is the part where I say something else. Why does that part always need to come up when I'm trying to remember how to breathe? Luckily her mom cuts all embarrassing conversation from happening. I'm happy and saved, yet already lonesome though she hasn't yet left. "I guess I'll see you later," I say almost to myself, and she smiles and adorably waves the way I've had it replaying in my memory for years.

She sits down next to her mom and glances at me, so I pretend to watch my sister play. Pretend to not see her drive away. Pretend to not see the girl I've completely fallen for. Pretend not to see… my lifelong best friend in the whole wide world who claims to know me inside out. Yeah, right. Only my lifelong best friend she will remain.

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**Hope I didn't offend anyone who likes Softball! (: The Lilly half is a true (altered) story. It's from my POV, so I had to imagine what Ollie's POV could be like…you tell me if I succeeded or failed—Review! PS. And now do you get why I rated it T? ;) xoxCamy**


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